


If There’s A Prize For Rotten Judgement

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Belize Shadow [3]
Category: Animal Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Closeted Character, Derdrian, Emotional Constipation, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Morning Sex, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 19:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: A post-Belize - but pre-assault - fic from Adrian's POV. Title shamelessly stolen from Hercules' song "I Wont Say I'm In Love" ;)





	If There’s A Prize For Rotten Judgement

There’s no us. Not that any of us ever thought there was. It’s simple, or at least it should be. I’m close and I grab the sheet, pressing you further down using my legs as a scissor. As much as I love it when you fuck me, sometimes I need this more. Because that’s one of few things that I know can make you shut everything else out. And yeah, you’re really good at it and sometimes I wonder what you’d say if I told you that in actual words.  
  
You’re making little noises, hums almost, vibrating around my cock and I’m becoming mindless, so fucking close now I’ll come in your mouth unless we’re careful. I’m lost to what you’re doing with me but you can read me like no one else when it comes to this and just before I crash, you’re replacing your mouth with a slick fist and work me over. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good in every way in moments like this and we’re at my place so I can be as loud as I want to be, and I am.  
  
I’m all spent and you’re still hard, have been for at least half an hour because you really took your sweet time with this and as soon as I’m breathing slower, I get on all four. With other guys I want it slow, but for some reason I like the burn when you take me fast. You’re also the only one I’ve allowed to go bareback. It’s unspoken but on this one issue you’re careful about yourself. You never fuck girls without rubbers, just me. Unlike in Belize, you’re always rough when you fuck me and you never face me, never let me ride you. And we’ve done this for so long now, I find myself missing you if I’m with someone else. I love it rough.  
  
You’re slamming into me hard, seemingly uncaring about me as if I’m just a hole for you, but I know you too well to be fooled. It’s not me you can’t face, it’s yourself, mirrored in my eyes and you’re making me hard again, dragging out on it to let me come a second time before I feel you growing tense, impossibly harder and then shooting inside me, hot and hard. Afterwards, you wipe us off as I’m catching my breath.  
  
”Can I crash here?”  
”Yeah.”  
  
Of fucking course you can. You shouldn’t even ask that. Of all your ways of trying to pretend you’re something you aren’t, not taking for granted that I want you here, is among the saddest. And _crash_? It’s not as if you’re sleeping on the couch.  
  
I know why you’re doing this. Why you’re pretending it takes longer for you to get done with the shower once I’m done. Why you’re waiting until I’ve gotten back to bed and turned the lights off. And I wonder if you know I only pretend I’m asleep. If you know I know.  
  
You’re walking with soft steps and without talking or making any noise what so ever. Sneaking back to the secret that, far away from the Belize sun, must remain in the shadows. Some parts of it, even you can’t look at in daylight. I’ve become an expert in faking sleep now, because that’s the only way I can make you come out from whatever self-hating bubble you’re trapped in and have you hold me. When you think I’m asleep – or pretend I am – your hands finally become soft.  
  
It’s important I don’t let you suspect, even for a second, that I’m awake. You’re spooning me, clutching me close and burying your face in my neck, your breaths like silent sobs, like you’re about to cry but can’t, even if you’d wanted to, which you definately don’t . It’s so fucking sad, feeling how much you’re holding yourself back because of the shame. You hate yourself, not because of all the illegal shit you’re doing or the way you’re acting like an asshole to make sure people can’t spot even a glimpse of a softer side. That would’ve been sad enough even if it makes more sense, but you’re hating yourself for who you are, for the best part of you and that’s fucking heartbreaking.  
  
Belize is fading and I can see how desperately you’re trying to hold onto it, but also re-shaping some memories. If it was me you despised, it would’ve been easier. If you’d called me names or never showed softness, if you’d not been unable to stop kissing me some drunken nights and didn’t hold onto me like I alone could keep you from drowning. I’d never continued with this, was it not for the way you’re looking at me when you’re forgetting about everything outside us and I’m not gonna tell myself you’re in love with me, but whatever you think you’re feeling and why, it’s not just about the sex. I’m pretty sure you’re quite good at fooling yourself, otherwise you’d never dare to come near me again, but you’re not fooling me.  
  
When I fall asleep, I do so with you holding me, sleep through the rest of the night with ease and I wake up feeling your hand drawing circles on my belly. Slow, almost tickling moves from your fingers and it takes a lot of me not grabbing it, not twining our fingers together and press it close to me, letting you know I’m awake and want you near, that even if the sex is really good, sometimes this is better than any orgasm.  
  
We shouldn’t keep doing this. You act like it’s simple and I play along, but this isn’t Belize and that means it’s anything but simple. Having you as a lover – fuckbuddy sounds too easygoing for this – is almost schizofrenic. It’s like being the spectator of a bad drama show, where you’re constantly pulled in different directions from Smurf and your brothers, watching, pigeonholing and expecting so much from you, you never really have a chance to make up your own mind about what you want and who you are.  
  
Once I thought that if there’s a prize for rotten judgement, you won it the day you crawled back to Smurf and stopped being yourself again. But what about me? I’m staying with this, whatever it is we have, because of all the ways you’re not aware of how somewhere you’re beginning to realise Smurf’s and your brothers idea of who you are, isn’t the whole picture and never was. It’s like the pathetic clichè ”good, loving, patient girl makes tough-looking but deep down sensitive bad boy getting in touch with his emotions and saves them both”. Only you’re a guy who, when you’re not occupied with hating yourself in silence, takes it out on both of us, on me by pretending you’re straight and I’m just an exception.  
  
I’ve been with experimenting guys who do it for fun or the challenge. Those kind of guys don’t wait until I’m asleep to spend long moments just touching me. They don’t pull in the scent of me, don’t need to control their breathing or force their hands still for the fear of feeling something they can’t handle. And it’s not easy to know when you want to give in to what you believe you _should_ want, or what you truly want. Do you even know yourself?  
  
I don’t want to go back to sleep. Not when you’re touching me like this. So gentle. Belize is like a fever inside both of us, just with different symptoms. Your gentleness is fooling me and I allow it. I want to be fooled because it feels good. Because your hands don’t lie now. You don’t feel the need to lie unless I’m awake and can expose you to yourself. I’m your mirror, showing both what you like and hate about yourself. You don’t love anything about yourself and wouldn’t let me touch you in a way that could be taken for loving.  
  
You’re letting your hand and mouth wander. I can feel your breathing growing a little faster, a little more strained. You’re getting hard, as am I and there’s not much time left until you feel you have to put your mask back on. I wish you didn’t feel that way, but I can’t really blame you. Not considering how huge the gap is between the way you are when we’re alone and you feel safe, and how you act when you’re terrified of people finding out. And I’m staying with you because you hate that fear far more than your feelings for me.  
  
When I can’t pretend to be asleep anymore, I hum and smile, still with my eyes closed and stretch out like a cat. I yawn and bury my face in the pillow, pretending I just woke up and is too sleepish to notice your gentleness.  
  
”What time is it?”  
”No idea.”  
  
Your voice is forced neutral and you’re biting my shoulder, harder than the nibbles but not in way that hurts. I hiss a little, but smile and keep my eyes closed as I move your hand where I want it, where you want it. When you can feel I’m already hard, you increase your bites and I laugh because I’m ticklish and you damn well know it.  
  
”Hey, stop it! You’re gonna torture or fuck me?”  
  
Another guy than you, may have answered that with a ”is there a difference?” or ”why not both?”, but you have absolutely no sense of humour when it comes to sex. Like none, zero.  
  
You’re grabbing the almost empty bottle of lube – do I wanna know how many we’ve used up since Belize? Probably not – and move the cover. I’m still tired and protest when you’re trying to get me on all four.  
  
”Nuh-uh, no way, man. You know I don’t do morning gymnastics before breakfast. Spoon me.”  
”You lazy shit. I’m doing the fucking work!”  
”So? You wanna fuck this early, that’s what you got. And I’ll make the coffee, as a compensation. Deal?”  
”Deal.”  
  
Using sleep and tiredness to get you to give me something I need. Manipulation? Of course it is, but I certainly don’t feel bad about it when you’re working me up slower than usual, using your fingers first and make me moan while you stretch me. I can feel when you’re on the boarder of feeling too much and I grab your cock.  
  
”Come on, stop teasing me.”  
  
You could’ve gone on with your fingers longer, but I know you’d feel uncomfortable and I want to fuck just as much as you. I want you to fuck me, want to feel you fill me up and go as deep as you physically can. You’re going slow at first, not because you’re careful, but because you take my faked sleepishness as an opportunity – or in your mind: excuse – for it. I love the few slow jerks you allow us before it’s all too much for you and you turn me onto my stomach, widen my legs a bit and start fucking me deeper, a little harder and so good I have to squeeze my pillow. You’re giving me what I want despite how uncomfortable you are with sensitivity and I reward you by getting on my hands and knees.  
  
I love the way you fuck me, love how big you feel inside me, how you’re getting lost in what you want for a little while. You may be an assholish, immature, confused and wayward idiot with poor judgement and mama issues, but you’re a fucking animal in bed. The right kind.  
  
You’re pounding into me, hitting my prostrate in just the right angle to make me groan more, pant louder and I start working on my own cock before reaching for your hand to stroke it for me. I climax faster and easier than usual, probbaly because I’ve been laying here getting all worked up while pretending to be asleep. I can feel the heat when you come inside me just moments after me and the groan you swallow in half but still has more heat to it than usual. The last glimpse of the ease you allow yourself only when you’re absolutely certain no one can see a piece of yourself, you’ve learned to hide and feel ashamed of.  
  
I would like to tell you, that’s the part that makes me open my door for you. Not the sex, no matter how good it is, or the fact that we’re friends. It’s the way you reveal the best of you when you think I’m not noticing. It’s how you’re not just falling asleep, but wait until I seem to be, to give me something I don’t demand or even ask of you. The softness you don’t have to, but want to give. And yes, waiting for the ”bad boy” to be good is pretty pathetic, but the prize for most rotten judgement probably goes to you, babe, for thinking I wouldn’t love and protect the best of you.


End file.
